


Koyaanisqatsi

by nirav



Category: Pitch Perfect (2012)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-06
Updated: 2013-09-04
Packaged: 2017-12-14 03:01:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/831937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nirav/pseuds/nirav
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>koyaanisqatsi (noun): a nature out of balance; a way of life so unbalanced that you need a new way</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've been sitting and poking at this for months now and haven't made any real progress. Here's to hoping that putting it up here will give me the kick in the ass I need to finish it....

_Of course. Of course you want to know how I got these scars. I will tell you. I got these scars the day I fell in love with you. You see, that day, I landed face first._ (Rudy Francisco)

 

The first time they sleep together, it’s an accident.  It’s Chloe’s 25th birthday and Aubrey throws her an extravagant party, as much to celebrate the fact that she just snatched up a huge promotion as it is to celebrate Chloe’s birthday.  The New York air is chilly and damp, but the club that Aubrey practically rented out is just warm enough, and Chloe is teetering happily between drunk and wasted.

 

Beca, on the other hand, is drunk, because she’s roughly the size of a ninth grader and has the tolerance of one, two drinks sending her careening into intoxication.  In true Beca form, she’s quiet and awkward and separating herself from everyone, watching the party with vague interest through the haze of alcohol.  It isn’t until Chloe plops down and wraps herself around Beca that Beca moves at all.

 

“Hi there,” she says mildly.

 

“Hi!” Chloe chirps.  “Why are you over here alone?”

 

“It’s quieter.”  Beca grunts, shifting as Chloe rests more of her weight against Beca’s side.  Her arm goes around Chloe’s waist to avoid being crushed, and Chloe pulls herself even closer.

 

“Come dance with me,” she says.  It’s probably supposed to be said softly, given that her lips brush against Beca’s ear in the process and make her shiver, but the words are loud enough to make Beca wince.

 

“Definitely not.”

 

“Beca,” Chloe whines, drawing it out.  “Come on, it’s my birthday.”

 

“I’m not dancing.  I hate dancing.”

 

“Please?” She’s pouting now, but even if a drunk Chloe is more charming than a sober one, a drunk Beca is even more stubborn than a sober one, and she shakes her head.

 

“Nope.”  She shifts again, sliding out from under Chloe and depositing her more modestly into the booth.  “I’m going to go to the bathroom.  Try not to pass out until I get back, okay?”

 

She uncaps the bottle of water she’d been picking at and hands it to Chloe before disappearing into the crowd.  The bathroom is empty, miraculously, and she takes a slow breath, counting to ten.  Right as she clicks over from seven to eight, though, the door opens behind her and Chloe bursts into the room.  Beca’s mouth is open to comment on the fact that Chloe really needs to stop barging in on her in bathrooms, but before she can say a word, Chloe’s locked the door behind them and yanking Beca forward by the belt to kiss her heatedly.

 

They’re drunk, and Chloe’s hands are warm and sure and far too deft as they bypass her clothes, and even if Beca had wanted to stop there’s no way she could have.  It’s Chloe, after all, and everyone was just a little bit in love with Chloe and her boundless cheer, so when Chloe is suddenly on her knees and doing _something_ with her tongue that Beca couldn’t even begin to describe as heat uncoils inside her and creeps up her spine with every swipe of Chloe’s tongue, she just lets her head fall back and her fingers grip even tighter at Chloe’s hair.

 

Sometime just after Beca’s fingers have fumbled along under Chloe’s dress to return the favor, there’s a pounding on the door and Aubrey’s unmistakable screech on the other side.  Beca scrambles to look like she didn’t just get blown away, like she doesn’t have the unmistakable scent of her best friend on her fingers, but Chloe just tugs her dress and straightens her hair and winks at Beca before yanking the door open.

 

“What the hell are you doing in here?” Aubrey slurs, eyes wide and smiling and drunk.  “It’s time for the cake!”

 

“Girl talk,” Chloe says flippantly.  She hooks an arm around Aubrey’s waist and kisses her cheek, pausing in her strides out the door only to wrap her fingers around Beca’s wrist and tug her along.

 

Beca slips out after abandoning her cake and her third attempt to speak to Chloe.  When she leaves, Chloe is on the dance floor, backed up against a guy Beca’s never seen before, eyes shut carelessly as she dances.

 

 

* * *

 

The next day, Beca calls Chloe four times and texts her three.  The day after that, she does the same.  The day after that, she hikes over to Chloe’s place and waits outside her door until she gets home from work.

 

“We need to talk,” she says firmly.  Chloe just smiles brightly and lets her in, setting her purse on the counter and kicking her shoes off.

 

“It doesn’t mean anything,” Chloe says.  “Sex is just sex, Becs, it only means what you want it to.  It’s just fun, and sex with your best friend is even more fun.”  She’s smiling and carefree and beautiful, just like she was when she exploded into Beca’s shower years ago, and rather abruptly her tongue is in Beca’s mouth, swallowing half-hearted protests even as Beca’s traitorous hands are scrambling at her skirt as she guides Chloe down onto the couch. 

 

* * *

 

 

Two weeks and eight times later, Chloe still hasn’t said a word about the fact that on the surface their friendship hasn’t changed—they still go out with the friends they have in common, meeting for drinks and talking about music until late into the night—but that when they’re alone it’s usually less than five minutes before one of them is making a play for second.

 

Two weeks and eight times later, Chloe meets Micah at the gym and accepts his offer for a coffee date.  They have coffee, and then they have drinks, and then she brings him to one of the clubs Beca is playing at and when he kisses her on the dance floor, she doesn’t stop him.

 

Beca catches the tail end of it from her spot in the booth, her fingers tripping over dials and knobs, breath tangling in the coiled cord of her headphones somewhere halfway between her chest and her throat.

 

* * *

 

 

“Okay, seriously.” It’s Jessie who calls her out on it.  He’s in New York for the weekend to visit, crashing on Beca’s couch, because they failed miserably at their four-month attempt at dating but fit scarily well as friends.  “You’re even more sulky than normal.  What’s up?”

 

“I’m not _sulky_ ,” Beca says, kicking at his knee.  He’s sprawled on her couch, as at home as he always is ,and she’s flat on her back on the floor, headphones plugged in.

 

“You are so sulky,” he says mildly.  He nudges at her hip with his toe.  “Seriously, what’s up?”

 

“I’m fine,” Beca mutters. 

 

“Bullshit,” he sings out.  “Bullshit, bullshit, bull _shit_.”  He’s halfway to dancing in his seat, and she chucks an empty CD case at him.

 

“You done?”

 

“Only if you’re going to start talking.  I can sing about your bullshit all day and all night.”

 

“Oh my God,” Beca mutters.  She jerks the headphones off, glaring at the ceiling.  “Fine, just—shut it, okay.  Stop.”

 

“Stopping.”  He slides off the couch to the floor and stretches out next to her.

 

“I’ve been—I’m—“ she pauses, taking a deep breath.  “I’ve been sleeping with Chloe.”

 

“You what with who and—you _what_?” His voice jerks up half an octave; she glances over at him and his ears are flushing red.

 

“Oh my God, stop being such a guy.”  She punches at his arm half-heartedly, grumbling, and glares even harder at the ceiling.  There’s a crack spreading and she’s pretty sure it’s from her upstairs neighbors having kangaroos for children.

 

“I’m sorry,” he squeaks out.  “I just—I’m okay.  I’m normal.”

 

“You sure?” she says crossly.

 

“Positive.  Best bro mode.”

 

“Sure,” she mutters. 

 

“So you’re—hooking up with Chloe,” he says after a few moments.  “Is that a bad thing?”

 

“Yes?  No?  I don’t know.”

 

“Are you,” he starts slowly.  “I mean, I don’t want to be a jerk or anything, but do you think you’re gay?”

 

“Maybe?” She takes a deep breath, closing her eyes.  “Yeah, I think so.”

 

“Oh.”  Long seconds tick past before he speaks again.  “Is that why you broke up with me?  Because I mean, that would make me feel so much better about myself.”

 

She punches his arm again. “I broke up with you because you’re like this obnoxious cousin I can’t get rid of, and incest is gross.”

 

“Stop hitting me.”

 

“Stop being a jerk!”

 

“I’m not being a—look, okay, I’m just trying to understand, okay?  My best friend just came out as a lesbian and I’m pretty sure I remember you perving on our radio boss and his abs at least once.”

 

“I—I don’t know, okay?”  She turns onto her side, curling her knees up to her chest protectively, and stares at his profile.  “I don’t know much of anything that’s going on right now.”

 

“But you know you’re sleeping with Chloe,” he says quietly.  He shifts to face her, eyes wide and serious.  “Do you want her to be your girlfriend?”

 

“It doesn’t matter what I want,” she murmurs.  “She doesn’t want me to be hers.  She said sex is just fun.”

 

“That doesn’t mean—”

 

“She started dating someone,” Beca says.  Her voice cracks in the middle, pathetic and sad, and her forehead creases at the sound.  “A guy.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“Yeah,” she mutters.  She doesn’t protest like she normally would when he scoots closer, pulling her into his side until her head is pillowed on his chest. 

 

 

 

Beca has never in her life played a sport.  She’s never been even remotely athletically inclined, neither of her parents ever cared to try and make her so, and she managed to stubborn her way out of ever even running a mile in gym class.

 

Chloe and Micah start coming to her gigs, though, because Chloe loves Beca and loves music and especially loves Beca’s music, and Micah actually loves her music too.  They start showing up to every Friday show, and Beca can always smell Chloe on her sheets, so Beca starts running.  She doesn’t have the shoes for it—she wasn’t even sure she had an actual sports bra until she found one buried somewhere in her drawers—but she goes anyways, pounding out undisciplined strides into the pavement, iPod clutched tightly in one hand.

 

It becomes a regular thing.  Chloe waltzes out of Beca’s bed, or Beca slips out of Chloe’s apartment at two in the morning with finger-shaped bruises on her hips and faint scratches up and down her back, lips swollen and hair a disaster, and within two hours she’s off running.

 

By the time Chloe has been dating Micah for three months, Beca’s worked her way up to two miles.

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

Micah is an investment banker from Delaware who wears tailored suits, coaches middle school basketball, and always wanted to be a rock star but instead was put into cello lessons at age seven.  He has a vinyl collection that Beca would kill for and that he grants her full access to without her even asking, a kind smile, and a wicked sense of sarcasm.  He isn’t perfect—he works long hours and sometimes forgets birthdays and doesn’t really speak to his brother anymore for some unknown reason—but he’s pretty perfect for Chloe, and Beca wants to hate him.

 

She can’t, though, because he’s classic rock and pop-punk to Chloe’s house tech and a capella; because he’ll sit for hours talking about whether or not the Clash were as much of as a watershed as they considered themselves to be when Chloe won’t last thirty minutes before she starts fidgeting and wanting to dance to Deadmau5; because he treats Chloe with all the flattery she wants and just enough of the pragmatism she needs.  Beca wants to hate him, but she can’t.

 

When Chloe and Micah have been together for a year, he surprises her with a weeklong trip to San Francisco to celebrate.  Not a week of that year has gone by when Chloe hasn’t slept with Beca at least once.

 

* * *

 

 

“Beca, hey!”

 

She slows to a stop at the sound of her name, frowning and tugging the earbuds loose.  Her blood thumps heavily through her veins, chest aching from the last two miles, and she turns to see Micah waving at her.

 

“Hey, what’s up?”

 

“I didn’t know you ran,” he says.  He’s also dressed for a run, a wide smile gracing his features.  She curses, for the hundredth time, the fact that she only lives a block and a half from Chloe.

 

She also curses the fact that Micah is obviously about to go from a morning run from Chloe’s apartment, where he has half the closet and recently helped her completely reorganize her kitchen.

 

“I thought I’d give it a try,” she says faintly.  “I’m not very good at it.”

 

“Do you want to go running together sometime?  I keep trying to get Chloe into it, but she’d rather go crazy on an elliptical.  I think she’s afraid of getting her pretty white running shoes dirty.”

 

Beca glances down at his shoes.  They’re Brooks, blue and what was once white, broken in and comfortable looking.  Her own feet are wrapped in two-year-old New Balances, and she shifts uncomfortably.  His eyes follow hers, brow creasing.

 

“I don’t want to sound like a jerk, but…how can you run in those?”

 

She shrugs.  “I just do?”

 

“You should be careful,” he says.  “You can really hurt your knees and back if you run with old shoes.”

 

“You can?”

 

“Yeah, you really can.”  An easy grin spreads across his lips.  “I was actually going to go get a new pair myself this weekend, these have too many miles on them.  You want to come with me?  You can get some real running shoes.”

 

“I—okay,” she says, biting down on her lip.  “Sure.”

 

“Awesome.”  He punches her shoulder gently.  “I’m gonna get going.  I’ll give you a call later, yeah?”

 

“Sounds great.”

 

He salutes her with a smile and takes off.  Beca watches him go, studying his stride for a brief moment before stalking her way into Chloe’s building.

 

She’s had a key since Chloe moved in, and Chloe barely blinks her attention away from her yoga when Beca walks in.

 

“We need to talk.”

 

“Just a sec,” Chloe says distractedly. 

 

“No, now.”  Beca plants herself in front of Chloe.

 

“Okay?  Is everything okay?”  A frown creases Chloe’s face.  “Were you…running?”

 

“Why is that so shocking?” Beca mutters.  “Not the point!”

 

“What _is_ the point?”  A slow smile curls at the corner of Chloe’s lips, and her fingers slip under Beca’s collar, finding the strap of her sports bra and tugging gently at it. 

 

“ _That’s_ the point,” Beca says, swatting her hand away.  “We can’t keep—not when you’re with Micah.”

 

Chloe huffs, rolling her eyes.  “Come on, Beca, it’s nothing.  Why do you worry about it so much?”

 

“Because you’re treating us both like crap!”

 

“I am not!  Micah and I _talked_ about it, he doesn’t care.”

 

“You what?” Beca freezes, jaw dropping.  “You told him we—that we’re—”

 

“Not _you_ ,” Chloe says, frowning.  “I wouldn’t tell people about your sex life, Beca, not even Micah, you know that.  But he knows that I’m not really up for a traditional relationship because I told him up front.  We have an agreement.  We can both do what we want as long as we’re honest about it.”

 

“But you’re not honest about it,” Beca says slowly.  “Unless you _did_ tell him that you’ve been fucking me in secret for the last _year_.”

 

“I tell him when I sleep with other people.  I don’t have to tell him _who_.”

 

“People?  How many—”

 

Chloe sighs.  “It’s just you, but he doesn’t know that.”

 

“That’s what we need to talk about!”

 

“Why?  It’s just sex, Beca.  We’re friends who sleep together sometimes, it’s not—”

 

“I’m gay!” Beca exclaims.  “And it’s something to _me_.”

 

“You’re…what?” 

 

Beca is certain that Chloe has never looked at her with such surprise before—not when she first sang for the other girl, not when she auditioned for the Bellas, not when she explained the setlist that would win them Nationals for the first time—and she squirms under the scrutiny, fidgeting in her too-old running shoes.

 

“Say something,” she says quietly.  “Please just stop looking at me like I punched you.”

 

“You’re gay?”

 

“I think so,” Beca says.

 

“I…oh.”  Chloe pushes a hand through her hair, taking a deep breath.  “I didn’t know.”

 

“Are you—”

 

“No!” Chloe says sharply.  “I’m not.  We’re just—we’re friends, and it’s just fun.”

 

“Chloe, come on, it’s not a bad thing if you are.”

 

“I’m not!” Chloe snaps.  Beca stares at her, eyes wide and unsure, because Chloe is the most open person she’s ever met, the one who started dragging Cynthia Rose to GSA mixers and gay clubs to find her a girlfriend, but suddenly she’s recoiling from the word _gay_ like it might burn her.

 

“It’s not a bad thing,” Beca repeats.  Her voice hasn’t sounded so small since the day her father walked out of her life for his new wife.  “Is it?”

 

“It’s—Beca, no, it’s not bad if you’re gay, of course not.”  Just like that, her best friend is back, concerned and comforting and warm, her hand hovering over Beca’s shoulder and wide blue eyes holding hers.  “There’s nothing wrong with who you are.”

 

“But you’re not gay,” Beca says softly.  “Then what are we—”

 

“It’s just _sex_ , Beca, come on.” 

 

“It’s not!” Beca says.  “Not for me.  I can’t just have sex and have it not mean anything, Chloe, you know that’s not who I am.”

 

“Fine, okay, we can stop if you want, all right?”

 

“That’s not—Jesus, Chloe, I don’t want to stop sleeping with you, I want to be your girlfriend!”

 

Chloe recoils, her head snapping back as if Beca had punched her.  “Beca, I can’t—I’m not—”

 

“Right,” Beca says coolly.  “You’re not gay.  We don’t want the same things.  I got it.”

 

She brushes past Chloe, a cold ache settling in her stomach.  She’s halfway to the door when Chloe grabs for her wrist, yanking her around. 

 

“Beca, don’t, come on, don’t leave mad.” 

 

Beca jerks her arm free.  “Just—stop, okay?” she says, tired.  “Just don’t.  I’m not a kid, Chloe, I can deal with rejection.”

 

“I’m not rejecting you!  I’m just not _gay_.”

 

“But you’ve been sleeping with me for _months_ ,” Beca throws back.  “It’s not just some one-off from your birthday, it’s more times than I can count.  This isn’t something you can just shrug off like a drunk frat party stunt.  This isn’t me always finding you, this is us finding each other time and again.  You keep coming back to me.”

 

“I’m not—Beca, I like guys, I can’t be gay.”

 

“Then you’re bisexual!  Who cares? It doesn’t matter!”

 

“I care!  It matters to _me_.”

 

The ache in Beca’s stomach drops out, and she settles back on her heels, arms crossing protectively over her stomach.  “What, being gay is good enough for me, but it isn’t good enough for you?”

 

“That’s not what I—”

 

“No, that’s exactly what you meant,” Beca spits out.  “You’re such a coward, Chloe, God.  You think, what, if you show people enough then they’ll never look for anything more?  You run around in dorm bathrooms with strangers, you have _open adult relationships_ with your boyfriend, you make out with people on the dance floor, all so no one will ever look deeper and figure it out?”

 

“There’s nothing to figure out!”

 

“Oh, there is,” Beca says lowly.  “You’re just too afraid to deal with it. Jesus, Chloe, you think I don’t know you better than anyone else?  I know you, I know you better than your mom, better than Aubrey, better than Micah.  You’re the only thing in the world I know as well as I know music, and you’re a _coward_.”

 

It’s barely of a quarter of a mile from slamming Chloe’s door to her own building, but it takes three miles and her chest hurting more from want of air than being let down by her best friend for her to make it home.

 

 

* * *

 

 

In the 48 hours after she came out to Chloe, Beca hasn’t heard a word from her.  She calls in sick to work, tables every project she’s working on, drinks her bodyweight in Jack Daniels, and sleeps for forty of those hours.

 

Her phone doesn’t ring once the entire time.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Sometime around three days after she left Chloe’s apartment, Beca is edging into sobriety from her bender, and the pounding on her front door makes her head ache.

 

“What?” she mutters, yanking the door open.

 

Chloe is standing in the hallway, leaning heavily against the doorjamb.  “Hi,” she says breathlessly, eyes glassy and red-rimmed and even drunker than Beca’s.  She surges forward, fingers tangling clumsily into Beca’s hair, and kisses her, heavy and bitter and careless.

 

Beca stumbles back, yanking at the hands in her hair and jerking away.  “Jesus, what the hell?” she spits out, shoving back from Chloe and putting the couch between them.

 

The door clangs open the rest of the way, and Micah is there, panicked and breathing heavily.

 

“Oh, thank God,” he breathes out.  “God, Chloe, don’t run out like that.”

 

“Anyone want to tell me what the hell is going on?” Beca says darkly.  Her arms cross over her stomach protectively, and she glares at the way Chloe is swaying drunkenly.

 

“Nothing,” Chloe says, just as Micah says, “We had an argument.”

 

“Go home,” Beca snaps.  “Both of you, get out of my apartment.”

 

Micah’s eyes widen even more, and he turns from Chloe to face Beca.  “Are you okay?”

 

“No!” Beca shouts.  “So get out, both of you.”

 

“Beca,” Chloe says plaintively.  “Don’t be angry.”

 

“Don’t be _angry_?” Beca barks out.  “Seriously?  Micah, I swear to God, get her out of here.”

 

“What’s going on?” The words come out slowly, his eyes jerking back and forth between the two of them.

 

“Your girlfriend is what’s going on,” Beca says, bitterly.  “Or did you miss the whole her showing up and kissing me thing?”

 

“Beca, you know how our relationship is—”

 

“Micah, no,” Beca snaps.  “I don’t give a shit about your open relationship because it’s _stupid_ and you know it and we all know it, so just don’t.  Take her home.”

 

"It's not stupid, we're both adults and there's nothing wrong with--"

 

"It's stupid because _she_ only wants it because she's a coward and _you_ only want it because you don't want to lose her!  Everyone is lying to themselves and I'm tired of it, so just _stop_."

 

“Becs,” Chloe says, reaching out.  Beca jerks back, slapping her hand away and wincing at the wounded look flashing across her face.

 

“Don’t,” she says quietly.  “Did you tell him?  How long we’ve been sleeping together?  How I came out to you and how you freaked?  How I wanted to be your girlfriend and you freaked even more because you can’t possibly be gay?  Did you tell him all of that?”

 

The apartment is silent, Beca glaring at Chloe and Chloe glancing uncertainly at Micah and Micah staring at Beca. 

 

“Yeah,” Beca mutters.  “I didn’t think so.”  She folds her arms across her stomach once more.  “You need to leave.  I’m not your hiding place anymore, Chloe, you need to figure your shit out without using me or him or anyone fucking else.  Get out.”

 

Chloe is staring at her, eyes wide and confused and hurt, and Beca watches stoically as she crumples, spine curving and chin dropping and shoulders slumping until Micah instinctively grabs her to hold her upright.

 

“Go home,” Beca says softly, for the last time.  “Don’t do this to me anymore.”

 

She disappears into her bedroom, shutting and locking the door behind her.  By the time she emerges, the sun has set and she has a plane ticket in one hand and the number for a moving company in the other.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“So,” Jessie says conversationally.  He’s leaning against a column at baggage claim, hands in his pockets.  “Not that I mind my best bro coming to see me, but why did you fly out here in the middle of the night?”

 

Beca walks straight into him, clutching tightly to his coat and burying her face in his shoulder.  His arms hold her up instinctively, pulling her close as she squeezes her eyes shut and focuses on the scratchy wool of his coat.

 

“I’m gay,” she mumbles into his shoulder.  His hands rub soothingly up and down her spine.  “I’m gay, and I’m in love with Chloe, and she’s been using me for months.”

 

“It’s gonna be okay,” he says softly, squeezing her tightly.

 

“This isn’t a movie.”  Dull laughter chokes out of her.  “It doesn’t always work out nice and pretty.”

 

“Maybe not always,” he says.  “But this?  This will work out.”

 

“You don’t know that,” she grumbles.

 

“I do,” he says solemnly, pushing her back and gripping her arms tightly, gazing sternly down at her.  “This will work out, because you’re incredible and Chloe loves you.  Even if she doesn’t love you the way you love her, you are her best friend and she will not be willing to lose you.”

 

“You don’t know that, either.”

 

“Maybe I don’t.” He rolls his eyes.  “But you don’t know that I’m _wrong_ either, so just shut up and let me be supportive.”

 

“Fine,” she mutters, and sinks back against his shoulder once more.  “But—”

 

“No,” he says sharply.  “If you keep arguing I’m going to insist on carrying you to the car like a five year old.”

 

“Don’t you _dare_.”

 

“Come on,” he says, edging around her and grabbing her familiar suitcase as it slides by on the conveyor belt.  “We’re going to get drunk and you’re going to do that thing you do where you make awesome music when you’re shitfaced, and you’re going to be okay.”

 

“Okay,” she says, dull and tired.  His free arm wraps around her shoulders once more, and they start towards the parking garage, Beca leaning against the solid weight of his side the entire time.

 

 

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

Jesse’s apartment in Chicago is twice the size of the one she had in New York, and he pays half the rent.  She takes up residence in the guest room and hands over the check from her former landlord for the security deposit refund to Jesse to cover her share of the first month she’s there.  He protests, and she punches him in the arm, and he winces and smiles and says _“So you_ are _still in there_ ,” as he accepts the check.

 

She punches him again and disappears into her room, and his laugher follows her through the door.

 

She’s convinced her boss to let her work from Chicago, emailing back and forth with musicians in New York and video conferencing into the recording studio.  It’s harder on everyone, but she’s good enough to be worth it, and all she has to do to stop her boss from complaining is to mention any one of the other production companies that contact her every few weeks with contract offers.  Jesse blasts into her room at odd hours to run compositions by her, and she finds a small bar a few blocks away to hide in when she needs it, and she deletes Chloe’s number from her phone.

 

It’s still written safely on a post-it note that’s wedged into a shoebox with a blue and yellow scarf and the remaining piece of a broken regionals trophy, but she pretends none of it exists anyways.

 

Six weeks pass, and Beca wraps a project early on a Friday and makes a pit stop at her bar on the way home.  She’s oblivious to the other customers as she sips on a beer and reads through the stack of project proposals that appeared on her desk that morning.  She’s paid her tab and is out the door before she realizes that her receipt has a business card stapled to it and the bartender’s written _Blonde, vodka tonic, asked me to give you her card.  Get it, girl._

 

Beca snorts, rolling her eyes.  Lisa had handed Beca a drink purchased by a man once—tall, handsome, sports agent—and never again after Beca had handed it back and muttered “ _I’m gay_ ”; since then, she’d been on a mission to get Beca a girlfriend.  When it came to strangers, though, she was a little more open than Beca was.  Beca pockets the receipt and card anyways; she can consider calling Alex the interior designer tomorrow.

 

All thoughts of Alex the interior designer skip away, though, when Beca comes through the doorway to see Jesse sitting in living room with Micah.

 

“Hi,” Micah says quietly.  He’s still wearing his winter coat and his cheeks are red from the wind.

 

“What’re you doing here?” she says.  She shrugs out of her own coat and hangs it up carelessly, avoiding his gaze the entire time.

 

“I was hoping we could talk,” he says.

 

“I was telling him that now might not be the best time,” Jesse said, moving over towards Beca.

 

“It’s not,” Beca says, flat and quiet.  “I’m not getting back in the middle of this, not again.”

 

“Beca, please,” he says.  “Just a few minutes.  I just—I need to figure some things out.”

 

“About Chloe,” Beca snaps.  “Who I have zero interest in talking about.”

 

“Beca, _please_ ,” he says again.

 

“Bec,” Jesse says softly.  “Maybe hear him out?”

 

“I promise I’ll leave after that,” Micah says.

 

“Fine,” Beca mutters.  “Jess, can you—”

 

“I’ll go get some food,” he says.  He squeezes her shoulder reassuringly and grabs his own coat.  Turning to Micah, he points a finger and levels him with a stern gaze.  “I’m sure I don’t have to tell you to keep your shit in line, right?”

 

“Right,” Micah says.

 

“Good.”  Jesse presses a hand to Beca’s shoulder once more, and then disappears out the door.  Beca crosses her arms over her stomach, avoiding Micah’s eyes.

 

“You wanted to talk,” she says.  “Talk fast.”

 

“Beca,” he says, strained and tired.  “I just—Chloe, she—ever since you left, nothing has been the same.”

 

“That’s not my fault,” Beca snaps.  “Jesus, Micah, everything can’t about _Chloe_.  Have a goddamned backbone, will you?  She’s treating you like crap.”

 

“I know,” he says sharply.  “I know.  I just—I love her, you know?  I don’t want to risk that.”

 

“Yeah, well, that’s apparently not up to you, because she’s screwing it up enough on her own.”

 

“Come on, don’t you think you’re being a little hard on her?  You’re her best friend and you just _left_.”

 

“No,” Beca says.  Her shoulder vibrate under her attempts to keep still.  “Jesus, Mike, no.  Did she ever even tell you what the hell was going on?  We were sleeping together before she met you.  We kept fucking after she met you, after you started dating, after you were practically living together.  Half of that is my fault, but I’m trying to own up to it, but you just keep giving her a pass.  Hell, you keep giving _me_ a pass, and you should hate me.”

 

“You’re my friend, I don’t hate you,” Micah says.  He scrubs his hands over his face, exhaustion settling over him visibly. 

 

“Why not?” she shouts.  “Stop being so goddamned nice, Micah!  Be angry, be upset, be hurt, be whatever.  Your girlfriend has been lying to you for your entire relationship.  I was lying to you.  I fucked your girlfriend in your bed, time and again, and you’re just _okay_?”

 

“Of course I’m not okay!” His voice almost shakes the framed movie posters on the walls, and Beca flinches back.

 

“Good,” she says quietly.  “Now buck up and do something about it.”

 

“No,” he says, sharp and short.  “I’m not going to lose Chloe like this.  I’m not going to push her out of my life.”

 

“Are you really even in it?  Has she ever been honest with you?”

 

He slumps, sighing, and drops down to sit on the couch.  “I guess not,” he says.  “But that doesn’t mean that I don’t love her.”

 

“I know.”  It comes out a strangled whisper, and Beca blinks back the abrupt sting of tears.  She moves to sit down as well, folding in over her knees into an armchair.  “I do, too.”

 

Micah laughs, dry and humorless, and his head flops back over the back of the couch.  “God, we’re pathetic,” he says.  “Too goddamned in love with a girl who’s too goddamned in love with the whole world.”

 

“That’s not how it is,” Beca mumbles.  “She’s just being a coward.  It’s not about her loving too much, it’s about her being too fucking scared to deal with anything.”

 

“Harsh,” Micah says.  His head lolls over to face her appraisingly.  “But probably true.”

 

“Why do you let her walk all over you?” Beca asks.  “I mean, I did it because I was screwed up and trying to figure my own crap out, but you…dude, you’ve got your life together.  What gives?”

 

“Jacob,” he says after a long moment.

 

“What?”

 

“Jacob,” he repeats.  “My brother.  We haven’t talked in…eight years?”

 

“Uh, okay,” Beca say slowly. 

 

Micah sighs, rubbing a hand over his eyes.  “We had a fight when I was in college,” he says.  “It was about—shit, I don’t even know anymore.  But we got in a fight at Thanksgiving one year, and he started giving me the silent treatment, so I started avoiding him, and suddenly two years go by and he’s living in Australia and won’t answer my calls.”

 

“That…sucks?”

 

He barks out a laugh, shaking his head.  “Yeah.  It does.  He’s married now, you know?  Wife, kids, nice house.  I think Mom said they got a dog last year.  I’ve never met his wife, or my nieces, because we don’t talk anymore.”

 

Beca is silent, chin propped on her knee and eyes uncertain.  He sniffs loudly, wiping at his nose with the sleeve of his coat.  “Anyways,” he says eventually.  “I just—don’t want to lose anyone else like that, you know?  Not over my stupid pride.”

 

“Oh,” Beca says.  Her nose wrinkles as she considers his words, and then she shakes her head.  “Man, that’s stupid.”

 

“Gee, thanks,” he says wryly. 

 

“It is,” she insists.  “I mean, yeah, it sucks balls that you and your brother never sorted your crap out, but that doesn’t mean you should let _Chloe_ keep treating you like a freaking doormat.”

 

He shrugs.  “Maybe not.  But it is what it is at this point.”

 

“No it isn’t!” she says.  “Come on, man, you’re a good person, you deserve to be happy just as much as she does.”

 

“So what should I even do, then?” he throws back.  “No matter how this plays out, someone is going to get hurt.  I go home to Chloe and we sort it out, and you get hurt.  I lock you two into a room together until you come out a happy couple, and I get hurt.  I walk away, and none of us are happy.  What do you expect me to do?  There’s no way out.”

 

“So what?” Beca exclaims.  “Dude, really, don’t be a moron.  If you want to be with Chloe and be happy, then man the hell up and fight for your stupid relationship.”

 

“I thought you loved her,” he says quietly.

 

“I did,” Beca retorts.  “I mean—I did, and I do, and I probably won’t ever really stop, you know?  But she really fucked me up, and I don’t think I’ll ever trust her.”

 

“Why should I?”

 

“Maybe you shouldn’t,” she says, throwing her hands up.  “I don’t know!  Jesus, Mike, I’m the most emotionally incompetent person this side of the Rocky Mountains, how the hell should I know?  The closest I’ve ever come to a real relationship was dating my best guy friend when I turned out to be gay, and fucking my best girl friend when she was dating someone else.”

 

“Yeah, that was messed up,” Micah deadpans.    

 

Beca rolls her eyes.  “What, are we at a joking place about that now?”

 

“Sure, why not.  We’re friends, after all.  Even if we’re friends who both got fucked over by the same girl.” 

 

“We’re pathetic,” she mutters.

 

“That we are.  At least you did something about it.  I still have no idea what I’m going to do.”

 

Beca sighs.  “Come on, let’s go.  I need a drink.”

 

“Where?”

 

“I know a place.  The bartender’s gonna love you.”

 

“I swear to God, if you take me to a gay bar—”

 

“Calm down, sparky, it’s just a bar with a hot bartender.  You’ll like her, she’ll like you, you’ll get free drinks and she’ll try to make me call the lady who failed to actually hit on me earlier.”

 

It only takes five minutes to walk to the bar, and less than half an hour after that before Lisa’s cajoled them through four rounds of tequila shots. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

Beca wakes up to a mouthful of cotton.  Groaning against the bright light, she spits it out and rolls over, right into Jesse’s solid and sound asleep form.

 

“Shit,” she hisses.  “Shit, shit, shit.”  She scrambles out of bed, grabbing at her own shirt.  “Oh, thank god.”  They’re both fully clothed and Jesse grumbles in his sleep, rolling over and groping for a pillow.

 

Beca pads out of his room quietly, wincing as the creak of the door bites into her hangover.  She’s about to flop down into her own bed when she sees Micah sprawled out atop it, dead asleep and still in his suit.

 

“Christ,” she mutters.  She reroutes to the kitchen and fumbles with the coffee maker.  Her phone whistles from the back pocket of her jeans, and she grimaces.  It’s a wonder it wasn’t broken when she slept on it.  

 

She has a handful of emails from work, what appears to be a text from Jesse at two in the morning telling her that he’s parked outside the bar to come take them home, and a text from a number she doesn’t recognize.

 

_It was great talking to you last night.  I’d love to hear more about your work over dinner sometime. –Alex_

 

“Oh,” she says, blinking owlishly at the message.  “Whoa.” 

 

“Whoa what?” Micah mumbles from the living room.

 

“Do you remember me talking to a blonde lady last night?”

 

“Yeah, Alex,” he says.  He tugs ineffectually at his tie, trying to undo the knot, and eventually just yanks it over his head.  “Nice chick.  Super cute.  Architect?”

 

“Right,” she mutters. 

 

“You gonna call her?”

 

“I’m not going to do anything but drink some coffee right now,” Beca says with a groan, pressing her hands into her eyes.  “Christ, how much did I drink?”

 

“More than me, that’s for sure,” he says.  He slides up to sit on the counter, head resting against the cabinet.  “I stopped counting after round six, which was about the time you got it in your head that you should have a drink for every time you boned my girlfriend behind my back as penance.”

 

“Oh, God,” she groans out.  “Please tell me I didn’t actually drink that much.”

 

“Nah,” he says with a laugh.  “That was about the time your blonde architect came over to say hi on her way out of the bar, and you abandoned me to have another drink with her.”

 

“Yeah, well, she’s cuter than you,” Beca mumbles. 

 

“I think I’m going to leave Chloe,” he says suddenly.  Beca drops the coffee mug she’s holding, barely catching it before it deflects off the conter.

 

“What?”

 

“Maybe just a break,” he amends.  “I just… you’re right, Beca, you’ve been right about all of this.  Chloe was— _is_ —using us, using me, and it’s not cool.  I love her, I really love her, but—I can’t stay with her, not now, not when I can see.”

 

“Oh,” Beca says.  “That’s—uh, I mean, do I say congratulations or give you a high five or something?”

 

Micah laughs, kicking out and catching her in the hip gently.  “Just tell me it’s the right decision.”

 

“It is,” Beca says firmly.  “It’s gonna suck, but maybe you’ll wind up in a bar with a hot blonde hitting on you in a few months and you’ll forget all about her.”

 

“Yeah, you think so?”

 

“Sure,” Beca says.  She pours two cups of coffee and hands one to him.  “Worked wonders for me, yeah?”

 

“You forgot all about her?”

 

Beca sighs, slumping against the counter next to him.  “No,” she says quietly.

 

“Yeah,” he says.  “She’s kind of fantastic.”

 

“She really is,” Beca says, wistful and sad, chest aching around a hole the shape of her bset friend. 

 

“And _really_ good in bed,” Micah tacks on.

 

“God, yes,” Beca says, even as her ears color red. 

 

Jesse shuffles out of his room, yawning.  Beca punches gently at Micah’s knee and shoves off the counter, pouring another cup of coffee.

 

“Morning, lover,” he says with a smirk, kissing her cheek wetly.

 

“Asshole,” she says.  She elbows him in the ribs, scrubbing at her cheek with her other hand as Micah laughs at them both.  “Shut up, Mike.”

 

“Be nice,” Jesse says, patting the top of her head.  “Or I’m leaving you at the bar at two in the morning next time.”

 

“I hate you,” Beca says affectionately.

 

“I hate you, too,” Jesse says.  “Mike, you sticking around a few more days?”

 

“I don’t think so,” he says quietly.  “I should get back, I have—I’ve got a lot to do.”

 

“You’re sure?” Beca asks, brow furrowing.

 

“I think so,” he says.  “Like a band-aid, right?  Should make it suck less.”

 

“Maybe,” Beca says.  She eyeballs him skeptically.  Jesse’s gaze darts back and forth between them, but he stays blessedly quiet.  “Do you have a flight back?”

 

“Yeah, actually,” he says.  He hops off the counter and drains the rest of his coffee.  “I hopped on a corporate flight here from work, there’s another one heading home this afternoon.  I’m allowed to hitch if I pretend I’m working on something the whole way back.”

 

“Ugh, jealous,” Jesse grumbles.  He jerks his head towards the bedrooms.  “Go ahead and grab a shower if you want.  I’ve got some clothes you can borrow if you want something clean.”

 

“That’d be great,” Micah says gratefully. 

 

“Spare towels under the sink,” Jesse says.  He slaps Micah on the shoulder as he heads past them, and then turns to face Beca.  “Okay, spill.”

 

“Seriously?” Beca sighs out. 

 

“As a shark attack.”

 

“He’s going to leave her,” Beca says quietly, leaning against the counter.  “I don’t know if it’s for good, or just for some distance to sort their crap out, but—yeah.”

 

“Wow,” Jesse says, whistling.

 

“Yeah,” she whispers.  “J, is this the right thing?”

 

“For who?  I’m sure Chloe won’t think so, but seeing as she’s the one who screwed you both up, I don’t think she’s really earned that much of a say.”

 

“Really?”

 

“Really,” he says firmly.  “Beca, you know I love Chloe, she’s a great friend, but she treated you like crap.  Do you remember how you were when you got here?  She _broke_ you.  He looked just as bad when he showed up yesterday.  Chloe is great and we all love her, but she needs to sort her shit out and stop using people like you and Mike to do it.”

 

“Oh,” Beca says, faint and unsure.  “Okay.”

 

“Anyways,” Jesse continues.  “You had a lovely lady vying for your attention last night even when you were leaving, if I do recall.”  He smirks when Beca flushes brilliantly.  “Come on, tell me, tell me.”

 

“Her name is Alex,” Beca says, biting down on her lip and fiddling nervously with the handle on her coffee mug.  “She’s an architect—no, interior designer.”

 

“What’s she like?”

 

“She’s—uh, she’s kind of like you, actually.  All earnest and nice and dorky.”

 

“I _knew_ I was your type,” he crows, pumping his fist.  “Ha!  I knew it.”

 

“Yeah, minus the whole _lesbian_ thing,” Beca retorts. 

 

“Don’t even care!  My personality is glorious and you would totally want all up on this if I was rocking the lady parts.”

 

“Oh dear God,” Beca mutters.  “I’m ignoring you.  Go away.”

 

“Deny it all you want, Beca Mitchell!” he calls after her as she heads towards her room.  “You love me in all of my forms!”

 

“I’m ignoring you!” she shouts, shutting the door behind her and flopping onto her bed.  After a few moments, she pulls her phone out of her pocket and thumbs through the text messages, landing on the one from Alex.  Her finger hovers over the number, hesitating and jerking back and gravitating towards it at least half a dozen times before she finally takes a deep breath and dials.

 

It only rings twice before a cheerful _“hello?”_ comes out.

 

“Uh—hi, um, is this Alex?”

 

“It is.”  There’s a pause ,and a short laugh.  “Is this Beca?”

 

“Uh, yeah,”  Beca says, and immediately pinches her own thigh at how lame she sounds.  “Hi.”

 

“I’m glad you called,” Alex says.

 

“I—yeah, me too,” Beca says.  “Though I guess it makes more sense for me to say I’m glad you gave me your number.”

 

Alex laughs again, and Beca smiles hesitantly.  “I wasn’t sure you’d remember who I was,” Alex says.  “We both got pretty drunk last night.”

 

“Yeah, still feeling the downside of that,” Beca says crossly. 

 

“Bit of a hangover?”

 

“More like a nuclear bomb of a hangover.”  Beca smiles a little wider when it draws a chuckle from Alex.

 

“Well, I won’t mess with your hangover and ask if you want to get lunch today, then,” Alex says, easy and amicable.  “Maybe tomorrow?”

 

“Tomorrow,” Beca repeats stupidly, sitting up abruptly.  “I—yes.  I mean, tomorrow is Sunday, right?”

 

“It is.”  Amusement is obvious in Alex’s voice.  “If you’re busy—”

 

“No!” Beca rushes out.  “I mean, no, I’m not busy.  Sorry.  I’m, uh, not very good at this.”

 

“Nobody is, really,” Alex says warmly.  “Some of us just fake it better htan others.”

 

“Right,” Beca says.  “But yeah, no, tomorrow would be great.”

 

“Awesome,” Alex says.  “Around noon?”

 

“Sure,” Beca says.  “Tomorrow at noon.  Where?”

 

“How do you feel about sushi?”

 

“Um, I have no idea,” Beca says hesitantly.  “I’ve never had it?”

 

“Maybe another time, then,” Alex says.  “There’s a Mexican place about a block away from the bar we were at last night.  How about that?”

 

“Sure,” Beca says again, and then pinches her thigh once more.  “I mean, yeah, that sounds great.  I know where you’re talking about.”

 

“Awesome,” Alex says once more.  “Then I will see you tomorrow at noon, Beca.  Looking forward to it.”

 

“Me too,” Beca says stupidly.  “Uh—I’ll see you then.”

 

“Bye, Beca,” Alex says, her voice warm and smiling even through the phone, and Beca smiles into the emptiness of her room.

 

“Bye, Alex.”

 

Beca sprawls back across her bed as the call ends, staring up at the ceiling.  Outside her room, Micah and Jesse clomp around and chatter as Jesse tries to find a pair of jeans he doesn’t mind giving up to Micah and New York.  After long minutes of listening to them, she rolls off the bed and over to her desk, sorting through mountains of sheet music and  notes to find a blank sheet of paper.  Before she can stop herself long enough to think, she starts scrawling out a letter.

 

An hour later, the three of them head to the airport, and as she awkwardly hugs Micah goodbye, she presses the letter, folded sloppily into an envelope, into his hands. 

 

“Can you—”

 

“I’ll give it to her,” he says, offering her a small smile.  He slides it into his coat pocket.  “Look, Beca, thanks for—for talking some sense into me.  You could have just told me to fuck off and then ridden off into the sunset with Chloe, but you didn’t.”

 

“Nah, I don’t think I could have,” Beca says.  She shuffles her feet awkwardly, wishing Jesse would speak, but he remains steadfast and quiet at her side.

 

“Other people would have, though,” Micah says quietly.  “I don’t think I really got it, not until now, how hard it was for you to leave.”

 

“It is what it is,” Beca says, shrugging. 

 

“Yeah,” Micah says with a faint smile.  He mercifully drops the subject, turning his attention to Jesse and shaking his hand.  “Thanks for everything, guys, really.”

 

“Anytime,” Jesse says.  “Come back and visit sometime.  We can _all_ go out and get plastered.”  He elbows Beca in the ribs at that, and she shoves him in retaliation.

 

“Deal,” Micah says, smiling wider.  He hoists his bag over his shoulder and salutes mockingly before disappearing into the hangar.  Beca watches him go, her arms folded over her stomach, and Jesse wraps an arm around her shoulders.

 

“You okay?”

 

Beca stares after Micah, her shoulders stiff, for long seconds before she finally nods.  “Yeah, I think I might be.”

 

“Excellent.  Can we get lunch?” he whines.  “I’m starving.”

 

“Fine,” she says, rolling her eyes and following him back to the car.  “Not Mexican, though.”

 

“What?  You love Mexican.”

 

“I’m getting Mexican tomorrow,” she mutters.

 

“You’re—what?”  He eyeballs her over the roof of the car for a split second before jumping up and down.  “Oh my God!   You have a date with the hot blonde architect!”

 

“Interior designer,” Beca says shortly.

 

“Yeah, sure, I bet she wants to do all sorts of naughty things to your interior,” he says.

 

“That doesn’t even make _sense_!”

 

“Who cares?  You’re dating the female me!  You’re dating me with a vagina!”  He jumps up and down again. 

 

“I hate you,” Beca mutters, flopping into the passenger’s seat.  He hops into the car, grinning broadly.

 

“No you don’t,” he sing-songs. 

 

“I really do.”

 

“Nah,” he says.  “You love me because you know I’m happy you have a date, not because you’re dating someone who is apparently me with some minor biological differences.”

 

“Gross,” Beca says, punching him in the arm.  “She’s not that much like you.”

 

“Hey, you’re the one who said it,” he says.  He blows her a kiss and starts the car, driving out of the parking lot.

 

“She isn’t,” Beca retorts.  “For one, she doesn’t think movies are that great.”

 

“What?” Jesse says.  “Beca, no, you cannot go out with her.”

 

“Too late.”  Beca sticks her tongue out at him childishly.

 

“That’s terrible,” Jesse mutters, sulking as he drives.  Beca smirks and rolls her eyes, plugging her phone into the car and starting some music.

 

“Hey, Bec,” Jesse says after a while.  “What’d you give to Micah?”

 

Beca is silent, staring out the car window at the passing streets of Chicago.  “A letter,” she finally says.  “For Chloe.”

 

“You okay?” he asks quietly.

 

“Yeah,” Beca says, taking a deep breath.  “I just—I needed to say goodbye, I guess.  I never said goodbye.”

 

“Okay,” he says.  The music fills the space between them once more, and after a few seconds he reaches out and grips her hand briefly.  She clings to him, not looking away from the window, and forces her mind to think of anything but Chloe.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_Dear Chloe,_

_I know you’re going through a lot of crap and I don’t want to add any of my crap on top of that, so I’ll try not to say too much.  Micah came here to talk to me about you.  I think he expected me to come back to New York and steal you away from him, but I’m not going to do that.  It’s not because I don’t miss you, because I definitely miss my best friend, and it’s not because I don’t love you, because as stupid as it makes me, I still do.  But you hurt me, and we hurt each other, I guess, and we both need to get ourselves sorted out._

_I need to figure out who I am now that I know I’m gay, because I figured out I was gay a week after the first time you kissed me but I never had a chance to figure out what that meant until I left.  You need to figure out what your deal is, too, because you’re not a bad person at all—you’re a great person and that’s why everyone loves you so much—but you weren’t being good to me or Micah.  I don’t know if that’s because you’re scared that you might be gay, or bisexual, or something else, or if you have something else you need to figure out, but it wasn’t doing anyone any good for me to let you keep using me to hide._

_I’m probably only saying all of this because I think I’m still drunk from last night, but I think I needed to say it.  Words aren’t really my thing, you know that about me, but maybe since everything I’ve normally done has sucked, something different is the way to go this time.  Anyways, I just wanted to say goodbye, I guess, and that I hope things work out for you.  Maybe sometime we can talk, after I’ve figured me out and you’ve figured you out, but I still need this distance now._

_Good luck._

_\--Beca_


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> forever and ever unbetaed, because being a beta for me is probably like getting repeatedly punched in the nose and no one deserves that, and written in like fifty word spurts over the last month. that's my disclaimer and i'm sticking to it.

Alex is barely taller than Beca, white-blonde hair cut short to match her pixie-like features.  She prefers what Beca determines to be an expansive approach to her work, inside out, feng shui and pattern matching and color coordination included in the physics and physicality of a building.  It mirrors the cross of the precision of math and the imprecision of art that creates music, the one that Beca fell for once upon a time, buried deep in her own childhood.   

 

Beca wanders through Alex’s apartment, buzzed and jittery, her limbs still loose with music from the concert they just left.  The walls are carefully scattered with photographs and framed magazine covers, the tables overflowing with blueprint stacks and color swatches.  It’s more than she can take in at once, and she eventually plops down in an overly small armchair.

 

“So,” she mumbles through too many drinks.  “Apparently you’re kind of awesome at what you do.”

 

Alex chuckles, calm and modest like she has been through one lunch date and two dinner dates and the first concert Beca has been comfortable inviting someone to in ages— _since Chloe_ , a nasty little voice pipes up from the background— and curls into a corner of the couch.  “Just lucky,” she counters.  “I looked you up, you know.  You’re pretty amazing at what you do, too.”

 

“Nah,” Beca drawls out, ducking her head and scrubbing a hand over her cheek.  The heat in her skin could be from the overcrowded venue they were at, or awkwardness, or humility, but there’s no telling which at this point.  “I don’t build things, I just— change them.”

 

Alex stands from her spot on the couch, shifting over to the arm of Beca’s chair, a hand curling around her jaw.  She drops down into the chair, settling easily on top of Beca’s legs—she’s light, so light, with none of the sinewy muscle that brought a subtle weight to Chloe’s frame—and presses her mouth against Beca’s, fingers wrapping easily in her scarf.  It’s neither new nor unfamiliar, and Beca leans into the softness, the delicacy, the concern for her that Chloe never demonstrated.

 

Long moments pass, comfortable and heated and easy, before Beca pulls away and leans her head against Alex’s collarbone.  Alex’s shallow breaths slips past her temple on every exhale, her chest rising and pressing briefly with each heartbeat under Beca’s dropped chin. 

 

“I should—”

 

“Stay.” 

 

Alex’s suggestion weighs carefully against Beca’s cheek, and Beca pauses abruptly.  Her limbs freeze, her spine tightens, but her heart rate redoubles and her hands shift from creeping up Alex’s ribcage to curling just above her hips.

 

“I should go,” she mumbles again.  Her words come out as a breath, dying softly in the space between them, and her fingers, traitorous and untrustworthy in the face of a fading dedication to red hair and blue eyes and a voice that will never again brush against the upper limit of a standard soprano, drop and release, resting loose and unintentional around the subtle outcrop of Alex’s hips.

 

“You sure?”

 

“Yes?”  She breaks one hand loose, skimming awkwardly down the line of Alex’s thigh and then back up again, and Beca squeezes her eyes shut and pretends her fingers aren’t shaking, her palms aren’t clammy.  “No,” she says more confidently.

 

“No, you aren’t sure, or no, you don’t want to stay?”  Alex’s fingers curl under her chin, grey eyes uncertain as they stare Beca down.

 

“No,” Beca says, and she presses up, kissing Alex for once instead of waiting to be kissed.  “I don’t want to leave.”

 

“Okay,” Alex mumbles against her mouth.  She kisses Beca, heavy and intentional, again and again, and tugs at her scarf, leading her blindly towards the bedroom.

 

There are gaping holes in Beca’s chest devoted to Chloe’s Disney-blue eyes and long red hair, but the rest of her zeroes in on short blonde hair and grey eyes that drop into black the closer they get to the bedroom.  It should be harder, maybe, to ignore the parts of her that are still hung up on Chloe, to adjust to even height and not hurrying and sheets that don’t smell like the life Chloe and Micah had built once, but Alex is small enough for Beca’s hands to fit neatly against her without stretching and she doesn’t grumble when Beca sucks a bruise into the side of her neck, so Chloe fades to a quiet nagging tug in the back of Beca’s head.

 

She wakes up halfway to sunrise, the edges of a panic attack grasping at her chest, and creeps out of bed alone.  She’s dressed and slipping through the apartment before Alex stirs in her sleep, but doesn’t make it out before catching a glimpse through the open bedroom door of Alex’s eyes, open and confused and wounded.

 

* * *

 

 

Beca is slumped over a cup of coffee when Jesse bangs into the apartment, sweating from his run and singing Rihanna at the top of his lungs.

 

“ _Someone_ came in late last night,” he says, throwing a fist out for her to bump.  Beca stares at it for a brief moment before redirecting her attention back to her almost-empty coffee cup. 

 

“Uh oh.”  He drops down into the chair across from her, scrubbing a hand over his hair.  “What’s with the moping?  Did you crash and burn?”

 

Beca’s phone rings, Alex’s name flashing on the screen, and Beca’s elbow disrupts her mug as she fumbles to silence the phone.  The last remnants of lukewarm coffee splatter onto the table.  “Shit.”

 

“Hey, what happened?”  Jessie yanks a towel off of the counter behind him and wipes up the coffee, not looking away from Beca.  “I thought things were good with you two.”

 

“Yeah, well, I’m an idiot.”

 

“What?  Come on, whatever it is, it can’t be that bad.  Not unless you, like, yelled out Chloe’s name in—oh my God.”  His eyes widen comically.  “Did you?”

 

“No!  I wasn’t even thinking about her when we—during.”

 

“Okay.”  His head cocks to one side.  “So what happened?  Was she crap in bed?  Because she _looks_ like she’d be amazing.”

 

“Hey,” Beca says, indignation narrowing her eyes.  “You don’t get to talk about her like that, or think about her like that.”

 

“Really not the point here, Eeyore,” Jessie says.  “Why are you sulking?”

 

“I freaked out,” she says, exhaling loudly and leaning tiredly against her hands.  “I—it was good, it was great, and then I woke up and I freaked out and—”

 

“And?”

 

“And I left,” she finishes quietly.  “I just—I couldn’t stay, I didn’t know how, so I left.”

 

“Oh,” he says.  “That’s way worse.”

 

She kicks him under the table.  Her phone vibrates, indicating a voicemail, and she flinches back from it.

 

“You know you have to call her, right?”

 

“No, I was completely unaware of that,” she snaps. 

 

“Hey, don’t do that bitchy I-hate-everyone Beca thing, okay,” he says.  “Not with me, not when you know I’m right.”

 

She groans, her forehead hitting the table.  “What do I _say_?” she asks her knees.

 

“Step one,” Jessie says, and she doesn’t have to look up to know he has his best scholarly face on.  “You apologize for leaving her in the middle of the night after, I presume, rocking her socks off.  Step two: you  do something to _show_ her that you’re actually sorry and not just saying shit to get in her good graces.  Step three: you tell her about Chloe.”

 

Beca’s head shoots off the table.  “Say what?”

 

“Beca, come on,” he says, rolling his eyes.  “Alex is super awesome, and you were a dick.  Apologies don’t mean anything, not really, not unless you show her you’re going to try and make up for it.”

 

“But Chloe is—Chloe,” she says.  “She’s never told people my secrets, I’m not going to tell anyone hers.”

 

“Then don’t use names.”  He shrugs easily.  “Best friend.  Lots of clandestine banging.  Emotional roller coaster.  Moved cities to find your bliss or whatever.  Still working through it.  Bim bam boom, explanation given, and maybe she forgives you.”

 

“And what if she doesn’t?”  The words come out halfway to a whisper, and her shoulders slump.  Once upon a time, she would have never been this girl.

 

“Then she doesn’t,” he says quietly.  “And maybe she won’t.  But even if there was no chance that she would, you would still owe her an explanation, and you know it.”

 

“Yeah,” she says.  “I know.”

 

“Good.” He hops up from his seat.  “Now, I’m going to go hog all the hot water, and you’re going to call her and see if she’s still willing to see your stupid face again, and then you’re going to take a cold shower as penance for being a dick to me, too.”

 

“I hate you.”

 

“I’m well aware.”  He punches her in the shoulder on his way out of the kitchen.  “Don’t procrastinate!  Call her now.”

 

“Go away, asshole!”

 

She putters around the kitchen, brewing another pot of coffee and emptying the dishwasher as the sound of Jesse singing in the shower drifts out into the apartment.  Her phone sits on the table, an innocent light blinking the corner to indicate a voicemail and a missed call.

 

She finally picks up the phone, counting to three and dialing Alex’s number before she can stop herself.

 

It rings twice before Alex picks up with a quiet “Hey.”

 

“Hi,” Beca says.  She squeezes her eyes shut, wishing desperately for Chloe—her best friend Chloe, the one who would sit at her side and squeeze her hand and help her through the harder things in life before she became the hard thing in Beca’s life—as she speaks. 

 

“I’m sorry,” she blurts out.  “I mean—I owe you an apology, and an explanation.”  She takes a deep breath, forging ahead through Alex’s silence.  “Can I come over tonight?”

 

“Beca, look,” Alex says.  “If this was just some—thing for you, some get some and get out thing, then just let it end with that.  I’m a big girl, I can handle that.”

 

“No!” Beca says.  “No, no, that is so not what it—no.  I promise, that’s really not what it was.  I wouldn’t do that.  I just have some—stuff.”

 

“Stuff.”

 

“Yeah.”  Beca squeezes her eyes shut, fingers clamping over the edge of the counter.  “I know it sounds lame and like a totally crap excuse, and maybe it is and—can I just explain?”

 

“Okay,” Alex says heavily.  “I should be home by seven.”

 

“I’ll be there,” Beca says.  “I—thanks.  For not blowing me off.”

 

“I’m not really a fight fire with fire kind of girl,” Alex says, listless, and Beca winces.

 

“I’m going to say it again later, but I _am_ sorry.”

 

“I’ll see you tonight.”  She sounds exhausted, and Beca bites down on the inside of her cheek when the line goes dead.

 

Jessie is out of the shower, and she has an hour before she has to be at work.  True to his word, he’s left her no hot water.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Beca barricades herself in her office all day, catching up on paperwork and old projects, responding to emails and generally avoiding human contact.  Four times her thumb hovers over Alex’s name on her phone; five times, over Jesse’s; twice, she dials Chloe’s number from memory and almost calls her each time.  _People_ were always Chloe’s thing, more than Beca’s, more than Jesse’s, more than anyone else, and she’s the lifeboat Beca still reaches for at times like this.

 

Chloe isn’t the solution anymore—she’s not even really the problem—though, so Beca leaves work at lunch and goes for the first run she’s been on in a month, going and going and going until her lungs burn and her exposed skin is bright red from the cold air and her legs can barely carry her home; even after an unhealthily long hot shower and her fingers thawing out, she still has two hours to kill. 

 

She winds up pacing up and down the stairs in front of Alex’s building at ten past six, measuring her paces so that she makes it up and down once for every ten seconds that pass, hands shoved into her jacket pockets and tapping with the rhythm of the music in her headphones.

 

She’s on the fourth song and approaching a hundredth pass on the stairs when Alex is suddenly there, arms crossed defensively but curiosity edging out of her gaze.

 

“Hi,” Beca says, teetering on the step and yanking her headphones down around her neck.  “I’m early, sorry, I—”

 

“It’s okay,” Alex says.  “Come on, it’s cold out here.”

 

Beca’s legs shake as they climb the stairs to the third floor, calves burning after being run so hard.  It gives her something to focus on other than the back of Alex’s head and the uncomfortable silence between them. 

 

In Alex’s apartment, the scarf Beca had worn last night is still hanging haphazardly over an end table where Alex’s nimble fingers had dropped it, and Beca’s fingers clench at the lining of her pockets.

 

“Do you want a drink?”

 

“God, yes,” Beca says too quickly, and a flicker of a smile flashes across Alex’s face.  “I mean, I don’t need to—I just—yeah,” she finishes, grinding her teeth together to stop herself from saying anything else.

 

She sits on the edge of the couch—as far from the chair she’d been in the night before as possible—and grips at her knees until Alex returns with two bottles of beer in hand.

 

“Thanks,” she mumbles, taking a long pull of the beer.

 

Alex sits on the other end of the couch, curling back into the corner, knees up and protective in front of her chest, and picks at the label of her own beer.

 

“Why did you leave?” she asks after a long moment, and Beca’s fingers flex sporadically around the neck of the beer, the bottle almost slipping from her grasp.

 

“I—I was freaking out,” Beca says honestly.  “It was stupid, I shouldn’t have—I just freaked, and I ran.”

 

“But why the freak out?  It’s pretty obvious that wasn’t the first time you’d—”

 

“No, no, that’s not it.”  Beca sucks in a sharp breath, rolling her eyes up towards the ceiling.  “It’s this really long story and it all kind of boils down to me being emotionally incompetent, I guess.”

 

“I have time,” Alex says firmly.

 

“Right.”  Beca sets her beer on the coffee table, first on the table and then jerking back out quickly to move it over onto a coaster and wipe the condensation off the wood with the sleeve of her jacket, stalling.

 

“Right,” she says again.  “You know how I just moved her a little while ago.”

 

“From New York.”

 

“Yeah.  I—God, this sounds so stupid.”  Beca pushes a hand through her hair, clenching her jaw.  “There was a girl.  My best friend.  We had a—I don’t know what it was.  We weren’t together, but we were screwing around.  A lot.  And she had a boyfriend, but we were sleeping together before she even met him.”

 

Her cheeks are hot, and she stands from the couch, pacing up and down between the coffee table and the fireplace twice before stopping front of Alex, fingers curling around her own elbows.  “I don’t know if it ever meant anything to her, but it wound up meaning a lot to me, and—and I knew it was wrong, and I knew we shouldn’t, but we just kept coming back to each other, you know?”

 

Alex is quiet, impassive, her chin resting on her knee as she watches Beca shift uncomfortably.  Beca tugs her jacket off, overheating in the warmth of the apartment, and stares at her shoes. 

 

“Before that, before any of that, I didn’t know I was gay,” Beca says quietly.  “But it just—I just—I figured it out.  I don’t know if that makes me an idiot for taking that long to figure it out or what, but I didn’t—not until then.  I was gay, and I was falling for my best friend, and we were screwing behind her boyfriend’s back.  And I kept letting myself go back to her, or her come to me, because I thought that what we were doing was better than nothing, I guess?

 

“But I couldn’t keep doing it, because I’m just not—cut out for that, I guess?  But apparently she can, or she could, or she had no problem doing it with me.  Whatever it was, I finally blew up at her and told her I couldn’t keep doing it, that what we were doing was screwing with me and I just wanted to be with her, and then she showed up at my door drunk a few days later and tried to sleep with me after she’d run out on a fight with her boyfriend, even though he was right behind her.

 

“After that, I really couldn’t deal with any of it anymore,” Beca finishes heavily.  “I packed up all my crap, moved in with Jesse, and convinced my boss to let me keep working from Chicago.”

 

Alex is quiet, eyes narrow as she studies Beca.  Beca tugs at the leather band around one wrist, jittery in the face of silence and honesty and memory.

 

“So you ran out on me because you’re still in love with her?”

 

“No!” Beca says quickly.  “I mean—Jesus, I don’t know anymore, Alex.”  She crashes down onto the couch, curling around her knees.  “I don’t think I am.  I know that I don’t want to be.  But I guess I also just let her—I let her get to me.”

 

“If she showed up at your door tomorrow,” Alex says after a moment.  “Sober, single, and ready to be with you.  Would you take her back?”

 

“You can’t take back what you never had,” Beca says quietly.  “We were never _together_.  She was using me, and I was letting her, and it was fucked up and weird and not something that should have ever happened.”

 

“That’s not what I asked.”

 

“I don’t want to be with her,” Beca says.  She sits up straighter, fingers clenching at her knees so tightly her knuckles ache, and forces herself to meet Alex’s level gaze.  “She was my best friend, I can’t stop caring about her, but I don’t want to be with her.”

 

“When we were—last night.  Were you thinking about her?”

 

“Dude, no,” Beca says firmly.  “I was definitely not.”

 

“Okay,” Alex says after a few seconds.  “Okay.”

 

“Okay?” A miniscule bit of hope edges into Beca’s voice, a tentative smile starting to form.  “Is that a good okay?”

 

“It’s an okay,” Alex says.  “An I need a little time to think okay.”

 

“Right,” Beca says, nodding.  “Of course.” 

 

She pushes herself up to her feet, shrugging back into her jacket.  “Just—uh, you obviously know where to find me.  I’ll be around.”

 

“Okay,” Alex murmurs, and Beca nods once more.

 

“Thanks for letting me explain,” Beca says quietly, shoving her hands into her pockets and turning towards the door.

 

She’s just pulled the door open when Alex slams it shut, spinning Beca around and kissing her heavily.  Beca responds immediately—it’s easy, so easy, when Alex takes the lead, because there’s no pretense, no façade, no guilt—and sinks into the way Alex’s hands grip at her shoulders, pinning her against the door.

 

“If you’re staying, you’re staying,” Alex breathes out against Beca’s mouth, and Beca’s entire body trembles.  “No running away this time.”

 

“Okay.”  She pulls Alex closer, hands skimming up her spine and back down again.

 

“You promise?” 

 

“Promise,” Beca says, hot and raspy, and drops her hands to clench at Alex’s hips, fingertips skidding under the denim of her jeans.

 

“Prove it,” Alex says heavily, and kisses her again.  Beca’s hand fumbles behind her, struggling blindly to make sure the door is locked—just for good measure, paranoia built out of Chloe’s secrecy—before she surges forward, pushing Alex towards the couch and settling on top of her.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is a clear reminder of a) that dialogue will forever be the worst thing in the world, and b) why i sat on this stupid fic for half a year in the first place: because i do *not* have the discipline to write this the way it deserves to be told. alas! maybe i'll find some inspiration or something....
> 
> also, i apparently totally screwed myself with the structure. this is becoming an unfortunate habit.
> 
> anyways, point is, for the sake of full disclosure: this might not get finished, at least not in even the most remotely timely manner. because i'm a butthead. my sincerest apologies, duckies.


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